I think my dad told me this awhile ago, and I repressed it from my memory, but yesterday, I went to Disney World (more on Deconstruction of The Spectacle, per Foucault, later) and was aggrieved to find out possibily the cheesiest, most cardboard, hokey, lame ride at the theme park, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, has been summarily replaced by some Pooh ride.
Not that the thousands of screaming, sticky faced bratty kids throwing dramatic and lustily public tantrums to extract from their genetic donors (otherwise known as parents, although any actual parenting of some of the offspring seemed dubious) sugary ten dollar popsicles and plastic toys guaranteed to break in under four hours wasn't sobering enough... But, I lamented at length a piece of my chilhood ripped away and lost forever. My sister and I used to go on that ride together, because it was so lame you just had to go on the ride. I'm sure you Mr. Toad affecianados out there know of what I speak. It was the refreshing tacky corny, low-budgety goodness of it all.
While I was lamenting the literary loss of another one of my childhood favorites, a companion noted, "Uh, kids today probably don't know who Mr. Toad is."
Oh god, the tragedy of generations!
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